Peter's Fiction and Essays

AMERICAN DREAM

Wanting to experience Cuba is a silly, romantic notion It could just as well have been the Amazon, or Mars

We gawk at The Iglesia y Convento de San FranciscoIt’s beautiful pink tower watching over Sancti SpiritusThe Assemblea Municipal with its Roman columns Peach in the Caribbean sunWe meander among the statues and gardens in Plaza MajorLook up to Che’s noble countenance Atop his Jeffersonian mausoleum

We declare entire towns World Heritage SitesFill them with our monumentsReassuring monoliths that defineHow we see ourselvesAs if we have built Mount Everest

We saw something similar in Dehli, Kathmandu Bangkok, Juarez, ChiapasPedi cabs, bicycles, donkeysSurrounding us in a chaos of purposeYaks, horses, fantastic trucksMotorbikes and all manner of quaint utilitarian cartsTransporting hustle, bustle and hopeEverywhere everyone afraid of each other’s intentionsOf being taken advantage ofOf LosingCreative energy desperate for the American Dream

Except Cuba is arrested developmentA communal society of scarcityLess buyer beware than we are all in this together

A street vendor hawks his waresAnd when we throw up our handsHe patiently tells us it is a national holidayGives us directions to a wonderful festivalA young couple walks quickly up behind usFollows and eavesdropsLatches onto usTakes us for dinner and dancingA boy on a bicycle chases down our carIt is obvious we are lostSo he leads us through a labyrinth of narrow winding warrens To the casa particular we have booked for the night

It is a dark stairwellSmall windowsJungle flowing over the roofClaustrophobicWe cannot bear to enter

A young boy smiles welcominglyPressed against his father’s backThe man’s friend booked our roomIn this fine man’s, this fine boy’s, homeWe have made other arrangements

He is crestfallenHis son looks at him quizzicallyWe apologize, hand him ten CUCHe does not want to take itHis eyes askHow can we live togetherIf we do not mean what we say?

We are bound more by what we cannot fathomThan what we can see we have in commonTiny insulated tribes coweringIn air conditioned houses and cars

Our small plane touches down in NassauAll of us who can come and go as we pleaseDisregard our matronly stewardessThe plane still our taxiHustling and bustling to be first

She claps her handsAs if rapping our knucklesWe look up to herLike the son looked to his fatherI wonder:What did the man tell his boyAbout the American Dream?And she answersWhat is wrong with you people?

Thanks for the kind words, Teddy! Been a lot of fun working with Peg on this, and the response has been fantastic.
We did do a small run of books with the images and verse. And Peggy’s gallery in Denver, Abend Fine Art, is going to publish it. Should have copies in time for Taos conference.
I am in Frank Huyler’s Novel in Prgress workshop. You might remember him, I think he was the writer at dinner with us with the Inkwell management agents last year, they represent him. He’s an emergency doctor in Albuquerque.